Chapter 13
Red wine remains drinkable for decades because the tannins in it act as a natural preservative; however, the wine must be properly bottled and stored.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abby removed the flatbread wraps from the paper bag, while Philippe located glasses in the upper cabinet of Jean-Louis’s small galley kitchen. Philippe had insisted on having their meal while sitting at a table, not in the car, a habit of Americans he found barbaric. After removing the fistful of napkins thrown in the bag at the Las Hermanas Healthy Food drive-through, Abby peeled back the wax paper on one of the steaming hot chicken wraps and inhaled the scent of the chipotle chilies, black beans, avocado, sweet corn, and tomatoes stuffed in with the grilled chicken, as if sniffing alone could quell her growling stomach.
Philippe seemed in no hurry to eat, taking an inordinate amount of time to select the perfect wine to pair with the wraps. And even before choosing the wine, he had sought appropriate music, even asking Abby for a suggestion.
She had deadpanned, “You could try a little rap.”
He had frowned.
“Or hip-hop.”
When he apparently didn’t get her humor, she confessed to not liking either style. “Why not surprise me?”
Philippe had fanned through Jean-Louis’s CD collection and had popped into the player one of Maria Callas singing Puccini arias. When they’d first entered the kitchen, Abby had sensed a cold emptiness in the room, despite it being furnished and well stocked. But with the music, Abby felt an almost palpable energy shift.
She hadn’t eaten all day, and for that reason, actually consuming the meal, for her, far outweighed Philippe’s desire for music, wine, and table settings. While Maria sang and Philippe perused his brother’s wine collection, Abby took the fragrant flatbread wrap—which already had her salivating—into Jean-Louis’s bedroom. With a gusto that would have embarrassed her were Philippe or anyone else there to see, Abby bit into the wrap without any concern about contaminating the scene. She felt confident that the police had already removed from the room anything that might have relevance, and, anyway, such items had been returned in the evidence boxes they gave to her and Philippe once the death was ruled a suicide.
Feverishly munching, Abby studied the bedroom, hoping to notice something that would benefit her own investigation. Jean-Louis had painted his room a latte color, with bright white on the wood trim around the windows, on the crown molding, and on the closet doors. On the wall above a black-hued, Mandarin-style altar table—which stretched out long and low opposite the bed—hung a tasteful collection of framed black-and-white prints of some of Albrecht Dürer’s woodcuts. She remembered studying that artist in a high school art class. Ooh, I am liking this room, Jean-Louis. You definitely inherited that art gene. Everything you touched turned golden.
Abby’s gaze move from the art to the bed, which was covered with a white cotton duvet with black piping, large black throw pillows, and smaller red silk ones that looked like giant roses. Next to the bed, on a white country French chest onto which had been stenciled a black paisley design with occasional dabs of red, perhaps to resonate with the silk pillows, stood a mahogany frame containing a photograph of a man with an engaging smile, large brown eyes, and thick, wavy hair. Now, where have I seen you before?
“Philippe, can you come here? I want to show you something,” she called out.
“I am searching for the corkscrew.” Philippe’s answer was punctuated by the banging of drawers as he opened and slammed them closed. “Ah, here it is.”
Abby heard a pop.
Philippe called out, “I found a fabulous French import. My brother had good taste. Not one bottle of American wine.”
When he entered the bedroom, Abby pointed to the picture and asked him, “Do you know this man?”
“Non. Must be a friend of Jean-Louis,” Philippe suggested.
“Oh, I’d wager he was more than a friend. Who puts a friend’s picture in such a romantic frame and keeps it at the bedside?” She pulled the wax paper up over her flatbread wrap to protect it and handed it to Philippe. Then she carefully removed the picture from its frame and turned it over. On the back, in cursive, was written, Love, J.
Philippe pointed to the writing. “Jean-Louis never signed with a single J. It was always J-L. Nor did he ever mention a friend . . . or, for that matter, a lover whose name began with J.” Where Abby had pulled the wax paper up over the wrap, Philippe peeled it back down again, exposing a chunk of chicken.
Abby studied the photo. “This man is very attractive, wouldn’t you say? His hair is crisply cut just above his shirt collar, like yours, only a little longer. Tailored black suit. White shirt with cuff links, no exposed buttons.”
Philippe observed, “The red silk pocket square and the tie add just the right amount of color.”
“So, he’s a power dresser. What else does this picture tell you?”
Philippe peered closely at the image. “The background tells me nothing. Probably it is the sort of background screen a professional photographer uses. He looks posed. This is not a candid image. It is not art.”
“Might it be a publicity photo?” Abby asked. “That’s what it looks like to me.”
“For a company profile or a charity event . . . That would make sense,” Philippe said. He turned his attention to the wrap he was holding and slowly lifted it to his lips, as if to take a bite.
“Hey, that’s mine.” Abby hurriedly laid the photo and the frame on the bed and reached for the wrap.
Philippe, grinning, lifted it out of her reach. “Ah, but you gave it to me, n’est-ce pas?”
“You have your own. In the kitchen.”
“Yes, but we are in the bedroom, and now I no longer wish to return to the kitchen.” His expression remained mischievous as he watched her reaction.
Abby’s eyes narrowed, and a devilish look came into them. “Philippe. You are messing with me!”
“Is it that obvious?” he asked with a laugh, handing Abby the wrap. “Your wine, mademoiselle, has breathed enough. The table, it is set. We need only the stimulating conversation. Shall I regale you with stories of my youthful indiscretions?”
Abby cocked her head to one side. Lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” She followed him to the kitchen, aware of her heartbeat quickening. What was it about this man that made her feel like a piece of malleable putty whenever he turned on that seductive charm? He could be so disarming and yet, at other times, tortured, distant, and confused.
Although tempted to submit to the attraction, Abby always stuck to her ethical high ground. There were questions to be answered. He had paid her to ferret out the truth. She had the habit of always asking herself the worst-case scenario for what-ifs. What if she succumbed to the attraction and ended up having an affair with Philippe? If things did not work out between them, the worst-case scenario would not be two broken hearts; the worst-case scenario would be that a tangled personal relationship would alter Abby’s perception of the truth. Still, she reasoned that drinking a glass of wine while listening to Philippe’s stories might be just the thing to relieve the pressure of the past few days. And Philippe, for sure, needed a break.
Philippe loosened his tie and removed his jacket as soon as they finished eating. They talked easily as they cleaned up the kitchen and threw away the garbage. Leaning against the sink, he removed his cigarettes and a lighter from his pants pocket and handed them to her.
“I’ve decided to quit. You’re a good influence,” he said, grinning broadly.
Abby tried to sound nonchalant, placing the items on the table. “Was it something I said?”
He shot her an enigmatic look. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?” Abby replied, with a puzzled expression.
“I don’t know. Cigarettes are, for me, something to share with a woman after dinner, after a walk, after making love. But if you do not like smoking, then I must give it up.” Philippe’s eyes met hers.
“No, you don’t,” Abby shot back defiantly. “Maybe I don’t smoke. But you do. Friends allow friends to decide for themselves.”
“Is that what we are, Abby? Friends?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“For the Frenchman, there is none of this silly friends stuff like you have in that Harry and Sally movie. When a man with the French blood takes a woman to dinner, she must understand the signal he sends.”
“What signal is that?” Abby asked.
“La romance. What else?”
Abby felt a warm flush creep across her face, burning her cheeks.
“Oh, now I have embarrassed you,” Philippe said, waving his hands in the air. Apparently realizing that the timing was not right for that discussion, he said, “I will tell you about the first time I smoked. It was also the first time I kissed a girl.”
Although hockey had been his favorite sport, Philippe said, he also had played middle school football, as a second-string quarterback. After the starting quarterback injured his throwing arm in an on-field crush during one game, Philippe had taken the field and thrown a game-winning touchdown. It happened only once, but the girls looked at him differently after that. One, especially, took notice.
“Olivia,” Philippe said, “was a risk taker. She dressed provocatively in short skirts, tight sweaters, and lots of fishnet. She smoked. At a party with some friends, she led me outside and lit up. I tried it, too. I inhaled and held the smoke in my mouth and lungs, against the urge to cough. Olivia must have thought I was sexy, because she suddenly pushed against me and kissed me with her tongue in my mouth. When I exhaled and coughed violently, she asked what kind of French I was if I did not know how to French kiss.”
Abby laughed.
As Philippe spoke of the adventures he’d shared with Jean-Louis while growing up in Canada and immigrating to upstate New York, Abby listened attentively. His younger brother, he said, had always been the better looking and more creative of the two. As children, they were very close, but in high school Philippe’s love of hockey consumed most of his free time, while Jean-Louis’s early interest in cooking developed into a full-blown passion for baking. Philippe stayed on a course plotted out for him through high school and college to take on the family business of art acquisitions and sales. During his college years, he studied art and business by day and worked in his parents’ gallery in the evenings and on weekends. Despite his early propensity for cooking, Jean-Louis surprised the family when he decided to immerse himself in the culinary world, eventually settling on pastry as a specialty.
By the time Abby’s cell phone rang, playing the theme song to the TV series Cops—the ringtone that told her Kat was calling—she and Philippe had moved to the brown and cream quatrefoil-patterned couch. It was a little weird, making themselves at home in Jean-Louis’s apartment, but Abby soon acclimated, especially after Philippe had replenished their wine. Kat’s phone call interrupted Philippe’s story about when he was a teenager and was babysitting his ten-year-old brother while their parents went on an errand to the gallery. The boys wanted muffins and decided to make them. The batter was delicious, and the muffins would have been, too, had the oven not caught fire. The blaze singed Philippe’s eyebrows and caught the pot holders on fire before the boys managed to call for help. Although no serious damage was done, the kitchen smelled like burnt rags for weeks afterward.
“That’s when I realized I could appreciate food without cooking it,” Philippe said with a smile. “It traumatized me.” He sucked in a mouthful of red liquid and held it in his mouth a long moment before swallowing.
Giggling, Abby answered the incoming call.
“What’s up, Kat?” Abby raised her wineglass and held it poised in position for a sip.
“News flash, girlfriend. Our illustrious leader has been in an accident.”
“Oh, no! Chief Bob Allen?” Abby asked. Gone were the giggles. Her expression grew serious. The chief had a tendency to be a bit of a hypochondriac, complaining about every ache, sniffle, or hangnail to anyone within earshot. Everyone knew that. Nobody cared. And to complain about a wart was just plain silly, given the serious nature of police work. But an accident, that was different. Rising from the couch, Abby asked, “Is he okay?”
“Oh, good Lord, yes.” Kat chuckled. “He has been calling Nettie every five minutes from his hospital bed, with mostly complaints, a few orders. Ever the micromanager, he insisted on a police scanner at his bedside. Just can’t let go, even when it’s in his best interest.”
“How did the accident happen?” Abby asked, giving Philippe a thumbs-up sign to indicate that the chief was okay.
“You could say he got picked off at the pass by a fire truck.” Kat’s tone suggested she was into telling the story her way.
“Be serious.”
“I am. Dispatch got word of a fender bender up at Turkey Pass. Then a grass fire broke out. Oh, the chief was all over that. Jumped into his Tahoe to head up there. Never one to miss a photo op, and you know reporters listen to our scanners. He inched his car around some rubberneckers who had pulled off the road, but fire engine three—the pumper—came flying along. While trying to pass, the pumper hit the rear corner of Chief Bob Allen’s SUV. Over he went—twice—before coming to a halt in a ditch.”
“Break any bones?”
“One . . . a small one. Don’t laugh. His tailbone.”
“Ooh, not good.”
“Now we can legitimately use the words ‘chief’ and ‘pain in the ass’ in the same sentence.” Kat’s giggle erupted into laughter. “It’s how we all see him, anyway.” Her pitch rose several degrees as she talked through her laughter. “Can you imagine the one-liners going around the department?”
Abby tightened her lips over her teeth, trying not to laugh.
Philippe stared at her, a bemused expression on his face.
Kat went on. “He has to sit on a doughnut for six months.”
Abby doubled over in peals of laughter.
Watching her lose control, a smiling Philippe shook his head, got up, and rescued the wineglass from her.
Abby dropped onto the couch, in stitches. When she could talk again, she panted, “I’ll bet he can’t even see the irony in being such a pain in the butt . . . with all that pain in his butt.”
“Doubt it. Pushed out of a photo op by our engine three pumper, that’s gotta be a first,” Kat replied drolly. And they both lost it again. Gasping, Kat said, “That, my friend, is karma.”
“We shouldn’t be laughing at the poor guy. I mean, a broken bone.”
“Oh, you can bet he’ll be whining ad nauseum to anybody who’ll listen for the next year or two. Anyway, gotta go. Cruiser is coming out.”
“Where are you?”
“Down at the car wash. Chief says we got to have the cruiser cleaned, tank filled, and our shotguns and Tasers locked in the armory every night at the end of shift. Come on. Now, don’t tell me you’ve been gone so long, you don’t remember all his rules?”
“How could I forget?” Abby got up and walked over to the window, opened the blinds, and peeked out at the garden in the courtyard. “Hey, if you aren’t working tomorrow afternoon, Kat, join us for Jean-Louis’s graveside service . . . around four o’clock . . . Church of the Pines, off the road at the summit.”
“Yeah, I’ll see if I can get off.”
Abby clicked off the phone and stared into the small manicured garden beyond the apartment window. Light shimmered on the grass. A blue-tile pool looked so refreshing, it was hard to believe no one was using it. Next to the pool a patch of roses and two wooden benches created an inviting place to contemplate the meaning of life and how quickly it could be taken away. A staid white-haired lady sat on one of the benches, reading a paperback, her small poodle on a leash sunning at her side. A man strolled by, pushing a bike, his loose trouser bottoms tucked into his socks. Absent were the sounds of children laughing as they played. Children were not allowed in this quiet adults-only complex on a cul-de-sac, several blocks uphill from the main section of town. This was where Jean-Louis had chosen to live. It made perfect sense for someone who worked nights and slept during the day.
Abby turned away from the window to look for Philippe, and she found him sitting on his brother’s bed, head in hands. Sinking onto the bed beside him, she spoke in a tone that conveyed a settled calmness. “Hey, partner. You okay? What happened?”
Philippe shook his head, heaved an audible sigh. “Jean-Louis and I used to laugh like that. . . .” His voice trailed off.
Abby nodded, ready to listen if he wanted to talk. But he didn’t. She sat with him for a few minutes, looking over at the bookcase. Hardbound classics filled the top shelf. Below, oversize art books occupied the two lower shelves. Cookbooks and two shrinking green jade plants in clay pots and saucers filled the rest of the bookcase. Next to one of the plants, Abby spotted a phone charger.
“He had a terrific sense of humor. It put people at ease. But Jean-Louis, he was quick to anger. I never understood his emotional swings.”
“I know,” Abby said. “I once felt the wrath of his anger.”
After a moment, she got up and unplugged the charger. “But he had friends. How could he not? Shall we call them?” She dangled the charger in front of him. “We have his cell, and now its charger.”
Philippe’s expression brightened. He stood up, walked over to her, and cupped her chin in his hand. “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for, Philippe.”
Abby took the charger to the kitchen. She went out to the car and returned with Jean-Louis’s cell phone. For the next two hours, Abby sat with Philippe at the kitchen table, scrolling through Jean-Louis’s phone directory, reading aloud the names and phone numbers while Philippe wrote them down on a piece of paper. Finally, they had compiled a master list from which they could start calling people.
“Those are all the numbers Jean-Louis saved in the various directories,” said Abby. “But there’s a starred number. Looks like one entry with a name spelled v-i-e-i-l-l-a-r-d. You mentioned this French name before?”
Philippe’s eyes met hers. “Abby, this must be the Vieillard that Jean-Louis mentioned to me on the phone—someone Jean-Louis said he had strong feelings for.”
“And how do you feel about speaking to this Vieillard?” Abby laid the phone on the table and pushed it toward Philippe.
“What do I say?”
“Tell him who you are. Invite him to the burial.” Abby thought through possible scenarios. If Jean-Louis was romantically involved with Vieillard, the man might know something that no one else knew, some piece of information that could shed light on the senseless death.
Philippe dialed the number, listened for a moment, apparently to a message, and then began to speak. “Bonjour. It is I, Philippe. . . .” Suddenly, Philippe’s eyes locked with Abby’s. His expression went as flat as a fallow field and was just as unreadable. He laid the phone on the table, pushed back his chair, and scurried out of the room.
Abby snapped the phone to her ear in time to hear the beep signaling the end of the allotted time to leave a message. She heard Philippe bang something against a hard surface in the bedroom. Abby knew that men who were grieving often behaved differently than women. They sometimes dealt with their pain through anger. But what had set him off? It probably had been a bad idea to ask Philippe to make the call in the first place.
Philippe ambled back into the kitchen. “Everything in this room, this apartment, it screams Jean-Louis. Look there.” He pointed to the large wall calendar that displayed several months at a glance. “See the red circle? Jean-Louis’s birthday. See the red line with the word départ over the top? He was going away. Don’t you remember me telling you about his plans to go to the Caribbean for his birthday?”
“Of course I do,” Abby said. “The calendar date goes to your argument that his death was not due to suicide, since, clearly, he was planning something for the future. When we take the case back to the police, we will include that information. But we are not there yet. We have to deal with the burial service. Calling his friends seems unnecessarily hard on you, so how about I make the calls and you look for pictures, letters, trip itineraries, and tickets of any kind—personal stuff that could establish your brother’s relationships with others? If you feel up to it . . .”
He nodded. “I am angry that Jean-Louis is gone. I am angry that he will never celebrate another birthday. And I am angry that his murderer is still free.”
Abby redialed Vieillard, but there was no pickup and no greeting, just a beep. She called the other individuals on the master list. The majority of them offered excuses for why they couldn’t make the wake or the burial, some saying that it was too far, especially for those in San Francisco or Napa; that it was too late in the day; or that traffic on the mountain would be intolerable, as it always was on weekends, when inland-valley residents headed over the mountain to the beach towns. Others confessed that they had heard the rumor about the chef and expressed worry that further association in any way could compromise them. In the end, a loyal group of three said they would try to make it to the graveside service.
At a minute before eight that evening, the phone rang while it was still in Abby’s hand. She looked at the name that had popped up on the screen—Vieillard. Her heartbeat quickened. Philippe was beside her, sorting photos he’d found in a book about Caribbean cooking. Abby held the phone out so he could read the name.
Philippe dropped the pictures. He snatched the phone from her hand.
“Bonsoir. Philippe speaking.” Locking eyes with Abby, he listened and then raised his hand, palm out, as if to say, “The caller is not speaking.”
Twirling an open hand, Abby tried to get him to engage the caller in conversation.
“Allô,” he said. “It may seem strange that I answered Jean-Louis’s phone, but, you see, I am his brother, Philippe. I was calling you on his behalf.”
Abby stood up and stepped next to Philippe. She tapped the speaker button on the phone. The caller, although silent, remained on the line.
“You must know by now that my brother . . . recently died.” Philippe paused, drew a breath. “Sorry. As you can hear, I am quite emotional, and I apologize for delivering the news—if you did not know—and the invitation by telephone. But we bury Jean-Louis tomorrow, and it is my hope that you will join us for the farewell service.”
A deep masculine voice softly replied, “My condolences. Where is the service to be held?”
Philippe’s eyes grew large. When he shook his head in desperation, Abby thought, Surely he hasn’t forgotten the name of the church? She jotted the location and the time on a piece of paper and twirled it around so he could read it.
Philippe spoke haltingly into the phone. “The Church of the Pines in Las Flores . . . four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
Abby sat back down and spun her forefinger in repetitive circles, encouraging Philippe to keep talking while she wrote another note.
Philippe’s hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear. “Although I do not know you personally, your presence, I am sure, would have meant a lot to Jean-Louis. You were his close friend, n’est-ce pas?”
The man sniffed in that heavy masculine way and cleared his throat.
Philippe added, “The viewing will begin at two o’clock at Shadyside Funeral Home.”
Abby held up her note. She’d written, Ask his name.
“Sir, if I may ask, what is your name?”
The phone clicked off.
Philippe laid the phone on the table, turned his head away from her.
Abby stared at the chiseled lines of his profile, saw his jaw grow tense. She reached over and gave Philippe a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You delivered the message. Hopefully, he will show up.”
Philippe ran his fingers through his thick black hair, leaned forward, and grabbed the large full-color Caribbean cookbook from the top of the stack on the table. He held it above the table and opened it, and pieces of folded paper, scribbled notes, recipes, and cards fell out. Philippe riffled through them, peering closely at those with any writing on them.
“Abby, look,” he said. “Everything written on these paper notes was written by Jean-Louis, except this address of a hotel in Santo Domingo.” He dumped two postcards out of a small paper bag, along with a receipt.
Abby examined the postcards. Each depicted an idyllic beach scene, and although they were purchased in an island shop in Santo Domingo, they were blank, never written upon or mailed.
“Abby, look at this,” Philippe said, animated again. He held up three photos, placing them side by side. They each showed Jean-Louis and the man whose photo stood in the ornate frame at Jean-Louis’s bedside. One image revealed the man and Jean-Louis on striped beach chairs on a private dock next to a wide swath of sandy beach dotted with palms. There appeared to be a large estate house behind them. The second image showed the two aboard a yacht, sipping from champagne flutes. The third image was darker than the other two and was similar to the one Abby had previously seen in the police files. It showed the two men on the deck of a boat in the open sea.
“There are eleven photos in all,” Philippe told her.
Abby dug through her handbag and took out a small magnifier. She looked at a fourth photo. It showed Jean-Louis and the mystery man fishing, naked to the waist and wearing flip-flops. It was the exposed biceps on both men that warranted a closer examination.
“Well, well,” she said. She touched Philippe’s hand and pointed to the picture.
“What? I see nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Look at the mystery man’s bicep.” Abby handed him the magnifying glass. “His tattoo looks like a six-nine or a nine-six on its side, depending on what angle you view it from. That is the astrological sign of Cancer. Jean-Louis was a Cancer. Would his friend get the same tattoo?”
“Perhaps he was a Cancer, too, and they got those tattoos together.”
“What if they became lovers on that trip? People get inked for all sorts of reasons. Maybe their identical tattoos pledged them to each other,” said Abby.
“C’est possible.” Philippe ran his hand through the curls at the back of his neck. “Good work, Abby.” He reached over and patted her on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger momentarily before pulling away.
“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” Abby said. “I’m going to take a picture of this man’s face with my smartphone and text it to Kat to see if she knows or can find out who this guy is.”
“You think he’s from Las Flores?” Philippe looked at her with excitement in his eyes.
“Maybe. I don’t know if he’s local or not. I mean, I don’t know everybody in town. Used to when I worked my daily beat as a cop, but I pretty much stick to myself these days. As for this guy with Jean-Louis . . . I have a hunch that they were on vacation together. Those postcards and the photos suggest the Caribbean. This man J. could shed some light, I think, on that trip and maybe tell us where to find Vieillard.”
Philippe frowned. “Do you think Vieillard is responsible for Jean-Louis’s death?”
“Not wise to speculate on that yet. But Vieillard is a missing piece of this puzzle. I need to find out who he is and what his connection is to Jean-Louis’s life narrative.” Abby pressed the camera app on her phone and attached the picture to a text to Kat. The reply came back within minutes.
“Philippe, we got it!” Abby exclaimed. “The man in the picture with Jean-Louis is Jake Lennahan . . . Eva Lennahan’s husband.” Abby leaned back into the chair. “You didn’t put away the wine, did you? I think I need a refill,” she said, reaching for the pictures of the two men and the postcards.
“I’ve got to look at this from every possible angle,” Abby said. Then she added, “If Eva Lennahan and her husband, Jake, took Jean-Louis on vacation, why didn’t she mention that when she met you and offered her condolences yesterday at the Shakespeare Festival? Another thing . . . Why do you think there is no image of her anywhere in all those pictures of that tropical vacation? To me, that’s just weird.”
“Couldn’t there be a logical explanation?” Philippe asked, arching his brows.
“Well, yes, I suppose Jake could have invited Jean-Louis as his guest as a thank-you for all the work he’d done on Eva’s political fundraisers. Or maybe the trip involved guy-only activities, and Eva opted out, knowing she wouldn’t be welcome. Or maybe she did go, but with other people to other functions.”
“All are possible.” Philippe’s eyes were fixated on Abby.
“What I find curious is that Jean-Louis did not post any of these photographs on his social networking page. Did you see any of these or other images of this man on Jean-Louis’s laptop?”
“Non. Not that I recall.”
Abby’s cell phone vibrated on the table. She answered it and smiled when she heard Lidia’s voice. She was most likely calling back about the man who had brought in the earrings for repair.
“Abby, dear, I located that receipt. The handwriting is a little difficult to decipher, but it looks like Lemadan or Lenadan.”
“Could it be Lennahan?” Abby asked, pulse racing.
“Well, I suppose it could be, dear.”
“Lidia, if the rest of the name is there, would you please read it to me?”
“Oh, there’s no rest of the name, dear. Just the initial J. and a phone number.”
Chipotle Chili Chicken Wraps
These simple, quick wraps are best when made with vegetables fresh from the garden and with grilled or rotisserie chicken. Place the fresh ingredients in bowls to make it easy to assemble the wraps.
Ingredients:
¾ cup chipotle chilies in adobo sauce, mashed
3 tablespoons honey mustard (or to taste)
2 flatbreads
1 warm rotisserie or grilled chicken, shredded or cubed
½ cup warm black beans
½ cup warm cooked sweet corn
½ cup diced fresh garden tomatoes
½ cup diced red onion
Several sprigs of fresh cilantro, minced
Directions:
Combine the chipotle chilies and the honey mustard in a small bowl and mix well. Toast the flatbreads. Spread some of the chipotle-mustard mixture on each flatbread.
Layer some of the chicken, black beans, and corn atop each flatbread. Garnish each with tomatoes, onions, and cilantro. Roll up the flatbreads and serve at once.
Serves 2